been gone for a minute, now I’m back

Gosh so much has changed in the year (or more!) that I’ve been ghostly quiet.

Cue crickets chirping here

Ian Grey
December 7 2020

You have no idea how much I wanted you.
How much I suffered for you.

I wanted you so bad, I begged for the chance to have you for months, going against the better wishes of every single individual I knew. Going against every excuse for no.

But what I didn’t know was how I would suffer endlessly both physically and mentally for nine straight months. I didn’t know I would vomit nearly 50 pounds of my body weight, and I didn’t know that I would spend the entire nine months with nonstop hospital visits, endless rounds of depression, and quite possibly the deepest, darkest, blackest hole I have ever been in.

H Y P E R E M I S I S    G R A V I D A R U M 

It affects about 2% of pregnant women. 
And it basically means that I am a walking talking vomiting machine. 

I suffered through nine months of hyperemisis, while also being off my bipolar medicines, and navigating some of the deepest personal struggles I have ever worked through in my life. 

And for you my sweet boy, for that perfect smile and face?

I wouldn’t trade an ounce of my suffering. You are pure love, and my soul has never felt so content and complete knowing you are in our family.

..content sigh here..

In 2020 I conquered being pregnant during a global pandemic. This meant for the first time ever I had to suffer alone during endless ER visits without my forever hospital buddy. In my first 18 weeks (during the months of March to May) I would have daily (and sometimes twice daily) ER visits due to the severe painful and violent vomiting. They would stick and prod me with all kinds of needles, narcotics, and medication.

I’m not talking about a little bit of nausea or a little bit of bile in the morning. I’m talking about full-blown exorcism style, body seizing up and cramping in a “I am in full-blown hysterics” vomiting fit with fresh vomit coming out about 15 to 20 minutes every hour on the hour. I couldn’t even keep water in my system long enough, before I was vomiting fresh cold liquids.

This also meant that sometimes they would discharge me from the ER, and I wouldn’t even make it through the night or back home before I was heading right back. There was no amount of liquids, Zofran nor Reglan which would make the vomiting stop.

Each time I was admitted it would take a minimum of 3 days before they could get the vomiting to just stop. Eventually, between my hysterics and continuous vomiting, I would need to be on a psychiatric dose of Phenergan, to knock me out.

Being alone in the hospital for me meant there was no one there who understood my mental state and how to keep me calm. No one from my support system to help me through the sheer panic and terror. No one to explain to these strangers why I look like a crazy psychotic bit*% just let loose from the asylum, leaving vomit trails behind her.

I was alone and I was scared. Unmedicated and terrified. She was in control, and at the time I couldn’t even see the glimmer of a light at the end of the tunnel.

All this during the “height” of COVID fears. So for the first time in my life (E V E R) I was dropped at the door of the ER with no one allowed inside with me.

Being pregnant, unmedicated, and experiencing around the clock vomiting meant that my mental state had completely deteriorated.

As in I was a total crazy bitch that if you said “try to relax” one more time my eyes were going to laser you down, or if I heard the words “this is all in your head” 😳 one. more. fucking. time.

No shit this is in my head, it’s a mental fucking disorder you dumb fucking bitch

Each time I arrived at that ER I was in full blown hyperventilation panicking hysterics and could not control my panic attacks. In those moments I thought for sure I was going to die. Cause of death: extreme vomiting.

I was in pain, I was dizzy, my stomach hurt like if I tried to get abs like the rock overnight. I was literally cry/yelling ” just make it stop, please”


And all they could say was “ma’am you need to calm down”

I was not even half way through my pregnancy at this point. I was admitted 3x for 6 nights each stay during these first 3 months.

After week 18 my vomiting fits would take me to the OB L&D floor

And can I just say, bless you universe for OB nurses

Here I would meet and come to know some o the nicest nurses I have ever had the pleasure of dealing with. Some who would come to know me personally as I continuously showed up vomiting. they referred to me as the VIP patient. Once I was coming through the doors, my girls, and Juan, were there to lift me up from the floor and bring me back to life.  

But, there was no one like Juan
Juan, the mid40s male OB nurse, who was previously married to a psychiatrist in Columbia.
Juan was the one who knew what to say, how to handle my outbursts, and how to soothe my demons.
If ever there was a gift from the universe to women pregnant while navigating mental health disorders, it’s name would be Juan. 

And I was not an easy patient when I came in my friends. I was H O R R I B L E at times.

Over those last 22 weeks, I was COVID tested up my nose (both nostrils 5 seconds each, they count it out for you) a total of 9x for my 9 hospital admissions.

Over the course of 39 weeks I had endless amounts of fluids pumped into, I was poked with countless needles as each time my veins would blow, always due to my severe dehydration. In October I spent 22 days admitted trying to control the vomiting.

But, also during these times my depression too was beginning to get blacker, and I was tumbling too far down the rabbit hole. My bipolar mind was starting to shed her shackles and I knew what was coming.

and I was scared

At the end of October, about week 32 of my pregnancy, my husband admitted me to L&D because I confessed to suicidal ideations. I wanted to die. It was way preferable to how I was feeling on the daily. So, I now had a round the clock sitter for the remainder of my pregnancy. Both in the hospital and out. I was not allowed to be alone with my kids, and I lost all vestiges of my privacy.

The only silver lining here?
The only upside to this?

My baby was perfectly healthy, and growing exceptionally well considering how much I was vomiting.

On December 7th, at 4am, my water broke. By 7am we were on our way the hospital (I spent three hours in denial).
At 1pm already being 4.5cm I received an epidural, and shortly after they began Petocin to speed my dilation.
Lucky me, my epidural was done incorrectly and I was now very much feeling my 8cm contractions.


Those are no joke my friend. WOW. 
They took my epidural out, and readministered higher up the spine (so fun!)
and then… B A M….. 5 minutes later: OK TIME TO PUSH!
Excuse me? I can’t even feel my body right now? Push what? Push where? How?

So I tried to push, lolol apparently I was doing nothing, at all, just holding my breath.

Andddddd then all of the sudden we’re all running down the hall way, because my little tiny baby’s heart rate had fallen down to 43bpm.
Before I knew it I was having an emergency C-section, being cut vertically as my little tiny baby was also already almost out (all I needed was literally one good push). My incision runs about 7” down below my navel.
They would later reopen this same incision 8 weeks after I was completely healed for my tubal ligation… superrrrr fun!
But totally fucking necessary!

No way am I ever having another baby.


I will say this, if Evan had been a C-section, Evan would be the only one. That shit is no joke. No fucking way would I like to feel the recovery of abdominal surgery ever again.


The night Ian came out, my magical antipsychotic pill went right back in, and thanks to the incredible help of my magical husband and my amazing support system I began the road to recovering my mental health. But doing so has not been easy, and I’m still no where near back to my “regular self”, whatever that might actually be. I struggle everyday with just trying to put back the pieces I blew apart in 2020. My life literally imploded, and I’m searching through tiny pieces of dust and debris trying to piece this mess together.

But as a mom, my only option is to show up and do the work so I can keep giving these kids the love they need.

And honestly, it’s what keeps me going, putting one foot in front of the other.
Every single day, I just keep living and healing for them.
They deserve for me to be whole.
They deserve a happy mom.

I’m on this train called life.
You know the bullet express with no stops?
It just keeps going, and going.
Never. Stopping.


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